


Pretending (and other inconveniences)

by BooBalooPants



Category: G.I. Joe (Cartoon), G.I. Joe - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Protective boys, baroness is the only one who knows what she is doing, cc is here just being injured and also horny, grump destro returns but with extra protec, hurting your faves because you love them, serpentor sucks part 3, zartan is sad and confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooBalooPants/pseuds/BooBalooPants
Summary: The Commander thinks everything is fine. Zartan is pretending everything is fine. Destro and the Baroness are pretty sure everything is not fine. When Serpentor finds out about the scheming going on behind his back things are definitely not going to be fine.  (Zartan pov)





	Pretending (and other inconveniences)

**Author's Note:**

> warning! very self-indulgent trash here. Yes, very sorry. Sunbow-verse (in which the Coil is Cobra Commander's little project. I'm sure it differs in the comics). I guess this is the unofficial third part of all these zartan/cc fics i've been doing lately. should have just lumped them all together but oh well. I don't know if this is the end of this little saga, I seem to get inspired randomly and without warning.

88

88

There was blood on the floor this time.

Zartan looked at it with a detached expression; like watching paint dry, or wondering when he might be able to leave some dull event he'd attended only out of politeness. In truth, his heart was trying to escape his chest, and his stomach clenched like it was being squeezed by a fist.

But he had always been good at pretending.

Masks of deceit, in more ways than the literal ones, were what had helped him succeed as the self-titled 'Master of Disguise'. He could lie, trick and con his way out of (and into) _anything_, if need be.

And a well-practised smile went a long way.

Serpentor returned the smile, although it didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't much for self-control, as the current situation demonstrated, and Zartan could almost_ feel_ the rage still emanating from the Cobra leader's garish outfit.

“Have someone clean this unfortunate mess up. I have other more pressing matters to attend to.”

His shadow crept across Zartan for a few seconds, and then he was gone.

Zartan didn't move until he was certain of that. Then, as everything dissolved back to the steadfast hum of monitor static and bleeping buttons, his smile slid away.

He rushed over to the commander.

There were little shards of glass glittering all around him, and Zartan's stomach clenched again, as he noticed the blood still stemming out onto the floor. His breath baited, until he saw the commander's chest moving up and down. Then Zartan remembered to breathe again too.

“Why can't you learn to keep your _damn mouth shut_, commander?”

It didn't take very long for him to come round, and then to protest and complain about Zartan's careful hands, as he pulled him upright. His head rested, perhaps unwillingly, against Zartan's chest.

“...what're you still doing here?” he sounded irritated.

“What does that matter? Can you stand up at all?”

“...in a moment.”

“Immediately would be better.”

“How pushy. You're worse than Destro.”

Zartan flinched. "Don't you dare even_ suggest_ that.”

The commander sunk against him some more. "And just as touchy."

It wasn't so bad, then.

Zartan could feel the tension that had wrought his bones and muscles slowly begin to ebb away. And then an unexpected and _sharp_ wave of relief, there only to remind him that the commander might be more than just another pay check after all. It always seemed to happen like that.

How inconvenient it was.

“...what's wrong?” the commander was still talking. "Are you even_ listening_ to me, Zartan?"

Zartan blinked, studying his own reflection in the mirrored mask. 

He needed to remember that practised smile again.

“You're bleeding, commander.”

“Yes...it's annoying, isn't it?”

“Is it under your mask? Here, I can-”

“_Don't,_” the commander hauled himself quickly out of Zartan's grip.

He leaned forwards on the floor, as if he might throw up. Then he shook his head as though to bat away a headache, as well as Zartan's aid. He wiped a gloved hand over his jacket. Zartan noticed the tremble in his fingers.

“I'm much better now.”

“If you say so,” Zartan didn't believe him at all.

He budged back a bit on the floor, and sighed.

The trouble, besides Serpentor himself, was that the commander was much too stubborn.

It wasn't a bad thing, necessarily. Sometimes it even worked to his advantage, like the unhinged equivalent of an optimistic boss.

Someone who always saw the light at the end of the tunnel, or that blasé _never say die_ kind of attitude.

Zartan could admire that. He _did_ admire it, and there was something interesting and kind of inspiring about seeing the commander at his most excitable, in more ways than one. Nobody could say that he lacked ambition, at least. Even within the throws of failure, he'd always come out of it with a new and demented idea. Whether it was any good or not didn't matter; he'd carry on regardless.

Zartan was usually happy to go along with whatever it was (money was money, and he enjoyed those bonuses), but now, as he stared at the bloodied floor, things felt very different and wrong.

“Perhaps you should reconsider this plan, commander.”

“That's a ludicrous suggestion,” the commander flinched as he readjusted his helmet. “This is just a minor setback, that's all.”

"You think Serpentor's a 'minor setback'?"

"I didn't say that," the commander sounded like he was scowling. "And you might show a bit more faith in me, Zartan." 

"You know that I do."

The commander turned his head away.

Zartan knew it wasn't a matter of pride, either. The commander was far too reckless to pay much concern for things like that. Besides, ideas of reputation and nuance were supposed to be Destro's department.

“_Unthinking insubordinate serpent! When will you learn to hold your loose tongue, commander?!_”

Zartan turned round in time to see Destro exploding through the door. His face was livid even through his metal mask, and his large fists were curling and uncurling, as he stormed over to them.

Zartan automatically moved in front of the commander, but Destro didn't look fazed. He pushed easily past Zartan, and bent down;

“_Well?_ " he grasped the commander's shoulders, shaking him just a bit. "Are you alright?” he demanded, voice touched with urgency.

“...yes,” the commander muttered, like a sullen child. 

Destro sighed, a sound that moved between exasperation and something else. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

“_Good_. I suppose,” he dragged his hands over his face as he walked over to the largest monitor screen in the room. There, he began swiftly tapping some random commands into the keypad. Stuff Zartan didn't know or even care to know about.

“_Stop_,” the commander cried. He staggered to his feet, and then toward Destro. “Stop it, Destro! I _order_ you to stop!”

“Restrain him,” Destro's eyes didn't leave the monitor screen.

Zartan dithered, but the decision was made for him. The commander hissed as he sunk back down to his knees, clutching at his side.

Zartan followed after him, a hand hovering and then resting on his shoulder.

“Be still, commander.”

The commander furiously shook his head. “You're undoing all my work, Destro...”

Destro glanced at him. His mouth twitched into a softer line.

“I'm doing this for your own good, commander. Do you honestly think that Serpentor will not have Mindbender check back on our operations here? You know as well as I, Mindbender is looking for any reason to provoke right now.”

“_He won't. _I've been careful!”

Zartan stared between them both. “Does Mindbender suspect anything?”

“_No-_”

“We _don't_ know,” Destro corrected. He finished tapping in a few more commands on the keypad, and then he looked at the commander with a much sterner face. “But we can't take chances anymore. If Serpentor finds out about this...he shall have your head, commander,” he seemed to consider it. “Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't already.”

The commander hissed again; a sound of frustration.

“I never asked you to get involved, Destro.”

Destro nodded. “I know. And I remind myself of that fact daily. It happens whenever I decide to question my sanity.”

“So_ stop. _The coil is _my_ project. I don't need your help, Destro. I can do it by myself!”

Destro grimaced. He looked at Zartan.

“Keep an eye on him. I think he might be concussed, at the very least.”

He looked over his shoulder, where the familiar figure of the Baroness was standing in the doorway. Zartan didn't know how long she'd been waiting there, but she was tapping her foot, and looked unusually anxious about something.

“I have to go,” Destro said.

Zartan watched him leave, before feeling the pull of the commander against his arm. He didn't realise he'd been holding onto him so tightly.

“You can go too, Zartan," the commander muttered. "I told you, I'm fine now.”

Zartan snorted.

“Hardly, commander,” he hesitated, and then attempted a smile. “Why don't you come back with me for a bit?”

“To where?”

“My beautiful abode, of course. I'll kick the Dreadnoks out for a while. It'll be like old times. And who knows, you might even have a good time.”

The pause for consideration was not imagined, and the commander probably looked conflicted, if Zartan could only have seen past his mask. He liked to imagine it that way, anyway.

But the commander shook his head.

“There are too many things to do. Besides, Scrap Iron is waiting for my latest instruction-”

Zartan pulled a face. “You're ditching me for_ him?_" he was only half-joking. "Surely not? You know he's about as trustworthy as a used car salesman.”

“That may be so. But he answers to money fairly well too.”

“_Hah_. And no doubt Mindbender will offer him even more.”

“Mindbender could always offer you more too, Zartan. You work for Cobra, not just me exclusively, remember.”

Zartan stared at the stunned reflection of himself in the commander's mask.

“My cause is to _you._ Or do you think me so disloyal?”

The commander shrugged. “I would understand, Zartan. If you're afraid of the consequences, or that you might reconsider our dealings together...”

“I'm not reconsidering _anything,” _Zartan grasped his arm, exposing one of the many tears that the Emperor had already cut into it. “And I'm not afraid of Serpentor, either.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

Zartan snarled.

Perhaps it was his own fault; he should have made it clearer. But Zartan had no use for sentiment at the best of times, and to try to put into words; that twist in his stomach, whenever he thought that the commander might seriously be hurt...well, it was irrelevant now.

And he was too _angry._

“You know what? Destro's right. Serpentor _is _going to kill you one of these days. And it'll be all your own doing, commander.”

The commander's shoulders shook with a cold laughter.

“I didn't mean to offend you, Zartan.”

It wasn't an apology; far from it. The words were thick with familiar sarcasm, even if the commander's stance was still so unassuming. Somehow still vulnerable and pathetic.

It was almost enough to make Zartan want to forget his anger. _Almost._

He stood up.

“I suppose I'll be seeing you, commander.”

He lingered just a moment, foolish enough to expect a protest, or something like it.

But the commander didn't say anything, nor even tilt his head in way of acknowledgement. Instead he got up (an unsteady attempt, but still successful) and walked over to the monitor screen. He began typing as if Zartan had completely disappeared from sight.

So Zartan did disappear.

The corridors were too long and bleak toward the Drome exit, and he passed by Scrap Iron on his way out.

The line of the Cobra's mouth was already a sneer when he looked at Zartan, and Zartan wanted to punch him out. He practised another smile instead.

“The commander is waiting for you.”

He was good at pretending.

88

It was raining that evening, and Zartan didn't mind at all.

He sat in his usual spot on the porch outside the cabin; soaking up his muddied surroundings and considering his next employment venture. Being a mercenary was a practical occupation, and he had no use (or time) for worrying about how often the commander fell, and _hard_, in front of the Cobra Emperor. And then how easily and more often it seemed to happen, and then all the blood on the floor...

Zartan stubbed his cigarette out, and stomped it under his boot.

_Damn, but he shouldn't have left him like that._

Such useless thoughts were often cut short by Dreadnoks, but they were all out this evening. Off on some thankless mission with his brother or sister.

Instead Zartan was interrupted by the Baroness.

The shape of her seemed to snap out of the darkness. She was drenched in rainwater, running straight towards him as if her life depended on it.

“What is-” Zartan said.

He didn't need any further elaboration, as he looked past her shoulder where a vehicle was bobbing precariously in the marshy waters. Destro emerged from it. 

He looked much bigger than usual. It could have been because of how he held the commander in his arms, or perhaps the commander just looked more diminutive like that. It was hard to tell.

Zartan did notice the cracked stem of his helmet, and the blood glistening on his mask. His arms hung loose and limp at his sides, and perhaps he was already dead...

“_What happened-_”

Destro barged past him, flinging open the cabin door with a kick of his leg. “What do you _think_ happened?”

He sounded tired more than angry, as he set the commander on the nearby couch. There he knelt down, and his large hands seemed to become unsteadier, wavering over the prone form, like he was afraid he might break something far too delicate.

Eventually he just turned his head, to look up at the Baroness. He made an uneven scoffing sound.

“...I knew this would end badly.”

The Baroness put a hand on his shoulder. “There's nothing you could have done, my darling.”

Zartan blinked; some unspoken dread finally catching up with him. It was much worse this time.

"Serpentor?" he said, through his teeth.

The Baroness nodded. "Yes-"

Zartan made towards the bow and arrow that hung upon the wall. He was already halfway out the cabin door when a rough hand grabbed his shoulder, whirling him back round.

Destro looked furious. “_Think_, you moron! We cannot act in anger right now.”

Zartan pushed him back. “Your dear Emperor seems to believe that is _exactly_ the way to act! I'm simply following his psychotic lead.”

“You'll be killed on sight.”

“I'm happy to risk it!”

Destro laughed, but it sounded embittered.

“And where was this foolish bravado a few hours ago, Zartan? When the commander could have used your protection? Good of you to make yourself_ so scarce_ when you're most needed.”

“_You_...!”

Zartan aimed a punch, but it was clumsy and full of ill-placed emotion. Destro was ready for it, and the Baroness easily blocked it anyway.

She wove in between them.

“Calm down, _both _of you. We cannot afford to bicker amongst ourselves right now. There are _other_ problems.”

As if in explanation, she gestured to the couch.

The commander's head had tilted to the side, and all three of their tensed figures were reflected within his bloodied faceplate.

“...she's right," he spoke, and his voice was barely above a brittle but sardonic whisper. "...touching as it is, seeing you all fight over me...”

He started to cough, his chest rattling with the effort.

“_Commander!_” Destro said.

He ran to him, a hand grasping his lapel, but the commander didn't say anything else. Destro looked grimly at the Baroness.

“We need to attend to his injuries at once.”

“Obviously,” she looked at Zartan. “And are you willing to cooperate too? For the good of the commander?”

Zartan dropped his bow on the floor. He rubbed an arm roughly over his eyes.

“Silly question, Baroness.”

He walked over to a small coffee table, and pressed an inconspicuous remote. The room faded out from rustic browns and burnt orange shades, into the clinical metallic of a control room; blinking lights of various control panels and small monitor screens flashing all around them.

"There are medical supplies in here," Zartan opened up a unit. "Take whatever you need. Or whatever might help"

"Thank you," the Baroness said.

Zartan still felt useless and terrible. He could only watch on, as Destro muttered vaguely soothing words (they sounded strange coming out of his mouth), and his hands moved carefully over the commander's faceplate. 

Zartan glared out the window. “I'll wait outside.”

“What's the matter? Too squeamish for you?” asked the Baroness.

“Not at all,” Zartan paused. “But I promised the commander I would never look upon his face. I would like to keep to my word, if it's all the same to you.”

The Baroness's gaze might have softened, but she didn't say anything else to him.

Zartan didn't mind. He left the cabin in a hurry.

The rain was beating down much harder now, and the purplish-blue night sky lit up with random flashes of light and crackles of thunder.

Zartan didn't mind that, either. He sat and watched it; a welcomed and temporary distraction, as time seemed to slow down.

He counted the threads of lightning whenever they struck. It was as if he could pretend that nothing else was happening for a while.

8

The storm had finally stopped by the time he ventured back inside in the cabin.

"He'll live," the Baroness informed him. 

“But bitten off more than he can handle," Destro grumbled. "I knew this would happen.”

The cabin had been restored back to it's rustic mask, complete with burning fireplace and flickering lamp lights. Destro was sitting on a chair in a corner of room, his expression weary and dimly lit. The Baroness stood near the window, her alert gaze occasionally flitting back to the commander, before looking back outside again. It was like she was waiting for something. Zartan didn't care to know what.

He stared at the couch. The commander had not moved from his prone spot, and there was little inkling that he might be conscious at all. There were the most careful attempts at bandaging about his torso, and the blood had disappeared from his cracked faceplate. His chest moved up and down, more slowly than before.

Zartan didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

“What happened?” he spoke into silence. “Did the commander provoke him again?”

Destro shook his head. He slowly massaged his temple. “It was someone else's doing. They informed Serpentor of the coil.”

Zartan swore, and kicked his boot into the ground.

“It was inevitable,” the Baroness said. “Only a matter of time before it was all found out.”

“But who was it?_ Mindbender?_”

“We have our suspicions, but nothing that can be proven,” Destro's gaze rested blankly on the wall. “And we have no use for pointing uncertain fingers at this time. It will only put ourselves in more danger.”

“But the commander...he can't endure much more of this, no matter what he says. Serpentor must be out to kill him at this very moment!”

“I don't believe so,” Destro looked undisturbed. “The coil is already old news, and Serpentor is a petty creature; he grows bored quickly. Now that he's had his little temper tantrum he'll welcome the commander back into Cobra quite happily, so long as he comes crawling on his hands and knees.”

Zartan scowled. “The commander won't do that, though.”

“He will have no choice. Where else can he go?”

“He can stay with _me_. I can protect him.”

Destro laughed. “You and what army? Those hooligan Dreadnoks of yours? Speak sense for once, Zartan.”

He didn't wait for Zartan's reaction, his eyes finally pulling away from the wall, as if coming out of a trance. He stood up and walked over to the commander, seeming to study him for a long moment.

“I would ask that when he wakes, you tell him that the Baroness and I are still loyal to his cause.”

Zartan blinked at him. “You're_ leaving?_”

“Temporarily, to attend to the fallout, of course. Cobra will have gotten word of this conflict by now, I'm sure. They'll need some...reassurances,” Destro sighed, and looked at Zartan more warily. “I trust you're capable of looking after the commander for a few mere hours?”

“Of course I am. But I thought that-”

“He's here,” the Baroness interrupted them.

Through the window Zartan noticed the flash of white, as sudden as any bolt of lightning. He knew at once that it was Storm Shadow.

Destro raised a halting hand.

“It's alright. He's on our side,” he looked at Zartan with some rare semblance of amiability. “Take care of him, won't you?”

Zartan nodded. "But what if someone comes here looking for him?"

"Then it would be a fine opportunity to protect your commander, wouldn't it?" Destro's smile soured.

He and the Baroness left without another word.

Zartan hung back against the cabin wall for a few minutes, listening to the foreboding rumble of thunder as it vibrated through the ground and touched his feet. The rain was starting to fall harder again.

He walked over to the couch and knelt down to the commander. He hesitated, and then pressed his hand over the other's.

The commander didn't stir at all.

“Another minor setback,” Zartan decided. “Nothing to worry about.”

But it was getting so much harder to pretend, for some reason.

88

88

Zartan had not planned to fall asleep.

The remnants of a lost dream about knives and arrows fell away from his mind in pieces, just as a lamplight smashed on the floor, temporarily putting the cabin into darkness.

He flicked on another light, and found the commander cursing on the floor.

Zartan jumped to his feet, aghast.

“_Commander!_ Stop this at once, you are injured!”

He grabbed him, and pulled him back up and onto the couch.

The commander made an angry sound of protest, and had a surprising burst of strength; a leg lashing out and connecting fiercely with Zartan's torso. It was short lived though, and Zartan barely registered it.

“Keep_ still_. You'll only make your injuries worse.”

“How awful...” the commander said, through pants of breath. “...you're crushing me...by the way...”

“I-”

Zartan realised that he was pressed quite bodily, on top of the commander, effectively pinning him to the couch. He shifted, so that the bulk of his weight fell away, but he only fractionally loosened his hold on the other's wrists. He didn't trust that the commander wouldn't try to get up again.

_Stubborn, senseless snake._

Oh, but now hereally_ was _beginning to sound like Destro.

“...hah...this isn't very comfortable, is it?” the commander said, through a more sedate gasp. His breathing seemed to be settling beneath Zartan too, like some cautious surrender, but Zartan didn't trust that either.

He curled his fingers around wrists some more.

“I can sit like this forever, commander. Or until you promise to stop being so foolish.”

The commander laughed, but it sounded like a painful effort.

“We're stuck here then. Not such a bad thing, I suppose...”

His body rippled, and one of his legs began to curve, somewhere around Zartan's back.

It was usually a welcomed act, but for once Zartan wasn't interested. And he knew that the commander was only trying to distract him.

Zartan bowed his head, teeth gritting together.

“You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" the play of innocence in the commander's voice was infuriating.

Zartan squeezed his wrists. 

"Serpentor will_ kill_ you.”

“I thought mindless violence appealed to you...”

“_And_ _I thought you were dead!” _

Zartan's voice carried around the cabin like something wild and unleashed. And it wasso much more desperate than he'd intended.

The tiniest silence followed it, as if to absorb and process the exclamation between them both.

Then a softer sound, like a sigh;

“...it was Scrap Iron, Zartan...”

Zartan's eyes snapped wide open, unaware that he'd even closed them.

"...what?"

"I shouldn't have trusted him," the commander's head tipped to the side. He sounded sorry. "You were right about that."

"Commander..."

Zartan could feel the commander's entire body, pulsing the odd thrill between fear and excitement beneath him. His mask was very close, but it still only reflected Zartan's own expression, as it always did. The only difference this time was that he looked so distraught.

Zartan guessed he shouldn't have been so surprised about that anymore.

He made a small sound of despair.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

The commander's chest hitched. “Whatever you'd like, preferably.”

Zartan shook his head. He grasped at gloved hands, holding them properly in his own.

He found that he didn't want to let go.

“You're a _damned inconvenience_, commander. You know that?”

“...hah. I try my best...”

"I mean it," Zartan leaned closer. "Can't you just forget about Serpentor? Just for a while?”

The commander's exhalation was unsteady, but it wasn't with pain. 

“You could make me forget? Just for a little while...”

He arced slowly and suggestively up, to close the tiniest gap between their bodies.

Zartan didn't resist it. 

He curved a hand along the imagined line of the other's face. "Make you forget, hm?"

The commander nodded.

Zartan only briefly debated with himself. It wasn't against what Destro and the Baroness had requested, and he was still technically_ taking care _of the commander. Just in a few more ways than one. Besides, they both knew. 

As Zartan reached down, past bothersome fabric to heated flesh, he found he had good enough reason to smile again.

"This is one of your better suggestions, commander."

Everything was so much easier, he realised, when he didn't have to pretend anymore.

Even if it was only for a little while.

88

88


End file.
